


The Seduction Battle of 221B

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, come-at-once challenge, friendly challenges, military!kink, seduction battle, violin!kink, voice!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock could be patient, but John could be stubborn. And both of them were just competitive enough to make it fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seduction Battle of 221B

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Come At Once 24-Hour Smut Challenge](http://www.come-at-once.livejournal.com) over on LJ. I was tagged by [jaune-chat](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com), who prompted me with "battlefield."
> 
> As-yet unbeta'd.

  
  
Neither of them remembers exactly when it started: lingering glances that gave way to a hand on the shoulder or elbow or small of the back, escalating to lips brushing the outer shell of ears as whispered instructions were passed on stake-outs. It became a game of who-would-crack-first: Sherlock could be patient, but John could be _stubborn_. And both of them were just competitive enough to make it fun.  
  
Two weeks into their little game, Lestrade called them in to speak with a witness--Private Jack Burgess. They arranged themselves side by side opposite the boy, who clammed up tight about his final days before being discharged from boot camp.  
  
“Why were you discharged?” Sherlock asked, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward. “What did you see?”  
  
But the private blinked at him, smiled politely, and then continued to stare forward at the mirror.  
  
“We have reason to believe you were friends with the victim, Jake.” John’s voice came out as gentle as Sherlock had ever heard it--as calm as asking the weather, as mild as telling the time. “We’re here to help.”  
  
Still the private said nothing.  
  
“Given the brand of jacket you’re wearing, the fresh love-mark just above its collar, and the fact that there’s the faint remains of a black eye over the crest of your left cheekbone, I could guess either you and your--friend had passions that ran hotter than most, or else you are covering up for someone in a position of power, despite your relationship with the victim.” Sherlock surmised. “Now, which is it?”  
  
Private Burgess drew in a deep, steady breath, and settled into his seat, ready to ride them out.  
 # # # # #  
  
After twenty minutes, they still didn’t get so much as a syllable out of him.  
 By that time, Sherlock had tried every manipulative trick he knew, and John just stewed, the frustration blossoming finally as the private shifted in his seat, his posture finally starting to wear on the muscles supporting him.  
  
John cleared his throat, furrowed his brow. He felt himself slide into his old role like a jacket he took out of the closet maybe once a season--it still fit, even if it wasn’t quite in style anymore. “Now Private, we’re going to have this talk, or you’ll find yourself court-martialed, and trust me when I say you’d _much_ rather have a chat with us, hm?”  
  
He hadn’t yelled, he hadn’t said anything Sherlock hadn’t already tried, but John had the knack of looking him in the eye, of selling it with every ounce of his former station.  
Beside him, Sherlock stiffened. Across from him, the private broke his wall-bound gaze long enough to give him a searching, almost frightened look.  
  
John glanced to Sherlock, who stared at him like he was seeing a whole new creature--and John remembered vaguely that the last time he’d gotten that exact look from him had been the last time he’d had cause to pull rank.  
  
So Sherlock _liked_ Captain Watson, did he? He filed that one for later, and turned his attention back to the private.  
  
It wasn’t much longer before Burgess’s resolve broke.  
  
  
# # # # #  
  
Sherlock came out of his shower, spotted the old photographs immediately. Still wrapped in a towel, hair still wild and damp, he flopped down on his bed, biting his lip.  
  
One photograph showed John, arm slung around another soldier, both of them in full kit, sun bleaching the colour from the desert surrounding them. He picked out the tired smile he recognised as the same one John flashed him after an all-nighter, the warmth only barely diminished by fatigue. Sherlock smiled, and moved on to the second photo.  
  
That one, however, caught Sherlock’s breath in his chest: another daytime shot, though this one was closer to dusk so the colours were far more saturated than the last, his protective gear abandoned so that John only wore his camo trousers and a vest. Sweat and grime gleamed on the curves and creases of him, his face streaked with a smear of what looked like automotive grease--a stripe of black on his golden-hued skin. His eyes were focused directly into the camera, eyebrow slightly raised, and he wore that smile he got right before he either punched or pounced.  
  
Sherlock swallowed thickly--John had turned that look on him quite a few times, and it had always left him somewhat lightheaded.  
  
His eyes drifted shut, fantasies he’d conjured up before only stoked with this new reference data, and a familiar stir built in his groin. But before he indulged himself, he flipped the picture over, glanced at the back. In pen, in John’s neat scrawl, was written simply, “Your move, Sherlock.”  
  
# # # # #  
  
John woke that night to the meandering notes of Sherlock’s violin being tuned. He sighed heavily, and gave into the summons--it was one of the more polite ways Sherlock could summon him at two in the morning, after all.  
  
He padded down the stairs as Sherlock started up a piece John recognised, though he didn’t know its name. It was upbeat, sounded more like pop than classical. The song almost reminded John of something from a Spanish guitar, but that couldn’t have been right at all. He slid into the sitting room, curled up on the couch, and offered Sherlock a polite, _keep playing_ sort of smile. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod before turning toward the window.  
  
As the song picked up, Sherlock began to sway--not the normal sort of upper-body jerks that most violinists moved with when playing, but with his hips, smooth and hypnotising. The movement combined with the playful, almost _flirtatious_ melody of the song snared John, entranced him. It was an absolute pleasure to watch the man before him, lost in the music in a way John had never seen him before.  
  
Around the second chorus--if indeed it was some sort of pop song--Sherlock twirled back round to face him, still swaying, still bowing till the violin sang its enchantments just for John. But now, now Sherlock gave him a quick smirk, locking eyes with him.  
  
John’s heart kicked up a notch. The space between them seemed to shrink, until his vision was filled with Sherlock’s eyes boring into his, the piece pouring from the violin like a finger crooked at the beckon. John thought of times in his past when he’d held a girlfriend’s gaze while they made love, and this felt just as intimate.  
  
Damn it, but he could feel the blush burning on his cheeks, the tips of his ears, but he didn’t blink, didn’t look away. So intent was he, in fact, that it wasn’t until Sherlock bowed the final notes with a flourish did John realise he hadn’t blinked the entire time, and now his eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, willing away the burn as Sherlock cased his  instrument. Then with an unsubtle swagger in his hips, he dropped a kiss to John’s forehead and whispered, “Your move.”  
  
# # # # #  
  
The following day they’d promised to help Mrs. Hudson move her furniture around to rearrange her sitting room, and Sherlock found himself scooting end tables and biting back scathing advice on how to best facilitate movement and comfort within the space, but mainly he found himself watching John.  
  
John, whose shoulders flexed so nicely beneath the ratty tee he wore, whose godforsaken jeans were just tight enough to show off the flex of his thighs, the swell of his damned gorgeous arse. John, whose jeans had apparently been hidden in the closet since they’d met, as Sherlock had never seen him wear them before that day.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
He spun to see Mrs. Hudson frowning at him in amusement, and he realised he’d utterly tuned her out in favour of watching his flatmate do all the bending and lifting. “Hm, yes?”  
  
“I said, Thank you, dear, I think that’s about it. If you two wanted to call it a day.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” he replied absentmindedly. He frowned, taking in a minor detail on the back of John’s waistband, revealed be the way his t-shirt had gotten hitched on the edge of it. Two tiny bits of plastic, the sort used in affixing clothing tags.  
  
And then it all clicked into place--of course he’d never seen John wear them before. John must’ve bought them the last time he’d gone out, must’ve hidden them in his briefcase or another bag of shopping. Which meant he’d bought them, had worn them specifically for all the little favours they did him, just for Sherlock.  
  
The thought brought a smile to Sherlock’s face, one he hoped wasn’t too predatory, considering Mrs. Hudson was now talking about tea sandwiches.  
  
# # # # #  
  
Days at the office were usually a neverending monotony of runny noses and overconcerned mothers, of refills of heart medication and fingersplints. In short, John was ready to slam his own head onto his desk in boredom by the time his lunch break rolled around.  
  
He unlocked his desk drawer to retrieve the brown bag he’d stashed there, and then thought better of it. He needed to stretch his legs, breathe some (relatively) fresh air. He’d have a stroll over to the cafe across the street, then.  
  
John nodded his “Be back in a fews” at the nurses as he passed them and stepped out into the watery sunshine. Christ, it felt good just to get out of that building, sometimes.  
  
It wasn’t until he was halfway across the street that his phone pinged loudly in his pocket. He bit back a smile, knowing with near certainty who’d texted him. Safely across the street, he slid the phone free and glanced at the screen. Not a text, then, but a missed call. And a voice message.  
  
That in itself was unsurprising--somehow his building had terrible reception, and it was common for calls and messages to not reach him til he’d left. What was surprising, however, was the fact that it was from Sherlock, who never called, and most certainly never left voicemail.  
  
John swallowed the small knot of dread that formed instantly in the back of his throat. J _ust because he breaks pattern doesn’t mean he’s been kidnapped or worse, Watson,_ he told himself, thumbing through the menu and putting the phone to his ear.  
  
A slow intake of breath hissed across the recording. “So glad you didn’t pick up, John. Was rather hoping this would go to voicemail, so I could do.. a little confessing, if I might.”  
  
Already John could feel the familiar burn blossoming in his cheeks. The tone in Sherlock’s voice, the depth of that dark-as-sin sound emanating from the receiver was unlike anything John had ever heard from his flatmate. And if there was one thing he knew was obvious, it was how much he _loved_ Sherlock’s voice.  
  
“I happened to notice something the other day at Mrs. Hudson’s. Rather a few things, honestly. I know you bought those jeans for me, John. And I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated them. Appreciated watching the way your thighs flexed, tight and strong. I can’t stop thinking about them, actually. Not your jeans, but all that muscle you’re hiding on your lower half.  
  
“In fact, I’m thinking about it now. All I can imagine is you, stripping those jeans off before me in our sitting room, hands roaming over those thighs, over the swell of your--rather distracting--arse.” Here he broke off, a nasal huff blowing into the recording.  
  
If John’s brain had been a record player, it would’ve caught a scratch thus then, a jarring rearrangement of his thoughts. Sherlock, breathing into the phone, his voice coloured with--with _want_.  Was Sherlock--his brain couldn’t process this at all, not in the light of day in the middle of a busy sidewalk--was Sherlock masturbating?  
  
The thought sparked desire, which rocketed straight to John’s groin so quickly he had to duck into an alleyway to keep from getting an ASBO for indecency. And then Voicemail-Sherlock loosed a faint, breathy groan.  
  
Oh, sweet _Christ_ that was exactly what was happening.  
  
And then Sherlock’s tone changed abruptly, bright and almost chipper. “Which is why I called--you should pick up more laundry detergent. Dirty clothes and all. See you tonight.”  
  
John sagged against the brick wall behind him, a rueful chuckle tearing loose from his lips. “Oh, you bloody bastard.”  
  
# # # # #  
  
Sherlock was still feeling rather proud of himself for that voicemail when John got home. _Surely_ it had been enough to force this situation to a head. He didn’t know which would be sweeter--the knowledge of a sure victory, or John pouncing on him as soon as he entered the flat. It was a toss-up.  
  
He was not prepared, however, for John to give him a polite nod before rounding the staircase to head up to his own room.  
_Just getting out of his work clothes,_ Sherlock told himself. _He’ll slip into something more comfortable, and then... well, I’ll win._  
  
Which meant he was doubly unprepared for John to descend the stairs a few minutes later in training shorts and an old cut-off t-shirt. What, was he planning on running a 5k? Had he not heard the voicemail, after all? Surely that was impossible--John was a fastidious man, the type not to ignore a message.  
  
“What is this?” he heard himself asking, uncurling from his position on the couch to turn his full attention to John, who was currently bending and twisting, stretching various muscle groups. Damn, but that had been a redundant question. “You’re warming up--warming up for what, exactly?”  
  
“Oh, nothing,” John answered easily, shifting his weight and bracing himself on one thigh as he stretched his hamstring, his calf. “Noticed I’ve been carrying a lot of... unresolved tension lately. Thought I’d exorcise some of it.”  
  
Sherlock frowned and snagged his teacup from the table. Its contents were over-sweet and entirely cold, but it was the motion more than anything that he craved. “Tension?”  
  
Dear Lord, was he a parrot now?  
  
“Well, that and apparently I’ve been told I should keep my legs in shape.”  
  
Sherlock nearly choked on his tea. So John _had_ heard, then.  
  
“You all right, Sherlock? Milk hasn’t gone off again, has it?”  
  
From its spot beside the teacup on the table, Sherlock’s phone vibrated, an unwelcome intrusion. Damn Lestrade.  
  
# # # # #  
  
John was glad, after the chase through Regent’s Park, that he’d had the opportunity to warm up. He hadn’t been as thrilled about bolting out of the house in ratty kit, but it couldn’t be helped. He managed to tackle the guy and toss Sherlock a cheeky wink before the Yarders arrived. He counted it an even draw.  
  
Take-out for dinner and a shower later, he was more than ready for bed--he hadn’t run that hard in some time. _Even Sherlock turned in early,_ John thought as he cleared away the remains from dinner. He refolded cartons and placed them where he could in the fridge, binned the trash, and placed the silverware into the sink. He hovered there a moment, debating doing the washing up, but decided to leave it for the next day. Surely it’d still be there. He turned for his room.  
  
It wasn’t until he drew near to Sherlock’s bedroom door that he heard it--a faint, rhythmic sound, a sigh, and John found himself rooted to the spot. A bitten off moan, the dull creak of bedsprings, and all that victory John had felt was incinerated by the fire in his blood. He couldn’t help but think of the voicemail from that afternoon.  
  
Surely his was for show. He wouldn’t be duped again.  
  
John could almost imagine it: Sherlock making all those noises without actually doing the deed, only to pop into the hallway with that insufferable grin right about the time John gave into his baser urges and wanked right along in the hallway.  
  
“Oh, God...” Sherlock’s moan was muffled by the door, but John was suddenly so hyperaware it sounded as loud as if he’d been standing over him. “God, yes.”  
  
John bit his lip, closed his eyes, willed with every fibre of his being for his erection to just  go away. But still, he couldn’t move from that spot near the door.  
  
_There’s no way this is really happening,_ John thought. _Should I--this seems too private. I should just--_  
  
That was when he heard a faint click followed by the unmistakeable buzz of a vibrator.  
  
_Jesus tapdancing fuck,_ he thought, and fumbled with his waistband, unable to keep from plunging his hand in to take hold of himself. _Just a few quick strokes. I’ll leave in just a minute._  
  
His hand wrapped firmly around his cock, John couldn’t help but imagine Sherlock on his knees, chest pressed to the sheets as he reached back to work the toy in and out of his body. Sherlock, on his back, fucking himself senseless, hitting his own prostate until he came, a boneless heap. Sherlock, using that same toy on John until John didn’t know his own name.  
  
And that was the thought that did it, really, albeit with a well-timed “God, John, please,” emanating from behind the closed door. Heat surged through John until his balls tightened and the heavens opened, the earth shook, and John experienced the strongest orgasm he’d ever had by his own hand. He bit back a cry, riding out the shockwaves as his core muscles spasmed, nearly doubling him over.  
  
As soon as he was once more physically able, John relinquished his hold, swiping his hand on the interior of his training shorts before beating a hasty, silent retreat back up to his own room. Once safe within his bedroom, he immediately set to work cleaning himself off--and forming a plan.  
  
# # # # #  
  
Sherlock shuffled from his bedroom the next morning ready to strop. He had been sure his maneuver the night before would be enough to break John’s resolve, to bring him running. Had John not heard him? It was possible he’d mis-timed himself, that John had already gone upstairs by the time Sherlock had really gotten going.  
  
But no, there had been the creak just outside his door, weight against the old floorboards. There had been John’s stifled cry moments before he went back upstairs.  
  
That was when, in his sleep-deprived haze, Sherlock took in his surroundings. John must’ve gotten up early--the table was set, but not with the typical fare Mrs. Hudson brought up if she made breakfast. Rather, it was laden with fresh fruits, John already seated and toast poised halfway to his mouth. He flashed Sherlock a smile, the one that made Sherlock’s stomach go all funny. _He’s doing this on purpose,_ Sherlock thought.  
  
“What’s this, then? Were we invaded by a fruit vendor?” Sherlock slunk down into his seat, glad now that he’d decided to come out in only his bedsheet.  
  
“Not at all. Just thought I’d do something a little different this morning.” John sipped his tea, allowing his eyes to linger over Sherlock’s frame, his face.  
  
Sherlock blinked hastily and reached for the teapot. He busied himself with the safety of making his cup, and tucked into breakfast rather more earnestly than he had done in quite a while. For a few minutes they ate in silence, and Sherlock spent the time analyzing all the different possible outcomes this particular situation held.  
  
“I’m sure you know this, but fresh fruit is supposed to be very effective at at altering the body’s natural chemistry. Enhances flavors, if you will.”  
  
At this Sherlock nearly got a raspberry lodged in his throat, but he managed. “I had heard.”  
  
“Well, thought we might as well prepare. Tonight’s a big night. Keep your schedule clear, hm?” With that John rose, collecting his plate and mug. He flashed Sherlock another smug smile before depositing the dishes in the sink and snagging his briefcase. He even had the gall to whistle as he left for work.  
  
  
# # # # #  
  
When John returned from work, he was glad he’d gone to all that trouble over breakfast. Well, not that it was _much_ trouble, but if there was one thing he knew Sherlock liked, it was puzzles. Especially ones where the answer couldn’t be nearly as it seemed.  
  
And in return-volley, Sherlock had spent the day just as John had hoped: the flat was noticeably tidier, the lights dimmed until the front room only held the warm glow of the fairy lights and the fireplace, and standing by the fireplace with his elbow on the mantle was Sherlock, but that’s where John’s brain absolutely _broke_.  
  
Sherlock stood by the fire in nothing more than his dressing robe, a pair of women’s knickers, and silk thigh-highs that had John ready to faint. And the heels, sweet God in heaven.  
  
It was then that John’s resolve broke into a million pieces. He crossed the room in a few short strides, door still half-open, briefcase discarded on the floor. Sherlock had just enough time to flash him a triumphant grin before John pulled him close, leaning up and tugging Sherlock down for a kiss.  
  
If Sherlock had expected the kiss to be harried or messy for all that John was a dam broken, he’d not tangled with John “three Continents” Watson, and John would prove it. He nibbled and sucked, sliding his tongue along the lower edge of that gorgeous bottom lip, and when Sherlock parted for him, he invaded without quarter and gave no mercy. The heat from the fire, the scratch of the lace beneath his fingers as his hand rounded the curve of Sherlock’s arse, it made him dizzy with it, until at last he pulled back, breaking the kiss.  
  
Sherlock’s lips should’ve been illegal, in that state--flushed and slightly swollen, parted around his surprise.  
  
“All right, you bastard. You win. Now, what do you get to claim as your prize?”  
  
Sherlock swallowed, collecting himself before flashing the smile that John knew promised danger and all things _fun_. “I was rather hoping we’d both be winning, by the end of tonight--”  
  
John didn’t waste any time grabbing his hand and dragging Sherlock back to his bedroom, where they proceeded to spend the remainder of the evening going over the... ah... terms and conditions of the winnings.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
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>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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